Morning Can Wait
by HellRaiserAlchemist
Summary: DeAnon A series of one shots based on a prompt in the kinkmeme  Fluff without porn being the basis of the prompt  So...Fluff ahoy! Multiple pairings!
1. RussiaxChina: Porcelain

Ivan sighed lightly, nuzzling into the crook of the smaller man's neck, arms protective around the frail waist. Yao made something of an acknowledging hum in turn, though it was still heavily laced in a haze that said he hadn't quite come down from the pleasure induced high. He then made a small whine of protest as the nuzzling agitated recently broken skin.

"I can't believe you bit me, aru." Yao mumbled, swatting gently at his lover, "Ivan, let me up, aru."

"Don't want to." The blonde supplied simply, sleepily and nuzzled back into his temporary nesting spot, though he was at least conscious of the bite and gave it a gentle kiss, "I didn't bite that hard…not even bleeding this time."

He chuckled when the words earned him another swat and merely cuddled the Chinese man more, "Yao's so adorable when he's pretending to be upset~"

Any further protest that Yao had originally intended were cut off when he felt frozen lips against his and fell into silence with a small shudder and sigh. The kiss was slow, tender, no real intent behind it past the brief contact. When they pulled apart, just enough to look each other in the eye, Yao gave a defeated sigh and a wary smile, "You've not changed a bit, aru…still thinking everything's a game, aru…." He temporarily buried his face in Ivan's hair, playing with the fluffy locks, "Aiya…I'm too old for games, aru…."

He didn't seem annoyed; not at all. He even smiled when he felt Ivan giggle against his skin. He soon shifted to where he could curl into Ivan's larger frame, now at an angle that he could easily nuzzle up under his chin. He gave the scarf a wary look, but didn't press—he rather liked it as a pillow, anyways. So, instead of his usual protests about Ivan potentially choking in his sleep, he merely rearranged the lengthy ends so they folded around them, acting as a slight blanket and pillow.

Ivan smiled softly, playing with the silk like dark hair, watching it pool and form a slight halo on the pillow. The steady, rhythmic breathing soon signaled that the smaller man was fast asleep, curled up against his chest, and oblivious to the rest of the world. The Russian closed his arms around the smaller frame once more, pulling him as close as possible, enough that he could rest his head over Yao's, keeping the man securely enveloped against his body.

In passing, he saw the fading pink against his shoulder and bit back the sigh; swallowed the rush of distaste that the mark always brought. He didn't like thinking of anyone tarnishing the beautiful body-except for himself of course- and let it go, slowly, with a forced, slow breath. Instead of mulling on the unpleasant feelings, he shifted, enough to where he could kiss lightly at Yao's shoulder, at the tip of the offending scar. The Chinese man squirmed, vaguely aware that the scar was being noticed, but stayed fast asleep; a sign of trust, a sign of security…and if Ivan really let himself believe it, a sign of love.

The Russian smiled and settled back to his original position, feeling the haze letting out to exhaustion. In final conscious thought, he loosened his scarf from his neck, rearranging the material so it was wrapped around both of them and nuzzled down into the dark hair, soon in a deep slumber. All the while, he maintained the protective grip on the smaller body.

* * *

...Oh my gawd, it's been so long since I posted on ...I forgot how weird the formating system is orz.


	2. DenmarkxNorway: Fight the Break of Dawn

Quick AN: Denmark-Magnus, Norway-Arkin. Den calls Norway "Norge" to be cute. ...It's Denmark, shh.

* * *

Magnus shifted when he felt the smaller body squirming next to him. He opened one eye, lazily, before pushing himself up to his elbow. The Norwegian nation was trying to slide out of the bed…trying, being the key word. The Dane caught him around the waist and tugged him back towards the center, ignoring the angry, under breathed curse, and promptly put his head in Arkin's lap.

"Mmmm…Noooorge, where're you going…s'too late for you to go home. Spend the niiiight."

"Stupid, let go." He swatted, irritably. Next to him, his guardian made a grumbling agreement, though it went unnoticed by the persistent older nation, "Magnus, I'm serious. If you don't let go, I'm going to let him punch you-."

"Aw Hell, Norge…way to ruin the moment." The Dane released him, flopping back onto his pillow with a whine, "You have any idea how creepy it is? Thinking of your…whatever the fuck it is watching us fuck?"

"As if I would tarnish my poor guardian that way. I banish him to his own dimension whenever we have sex." Arkin rolled his eyes, moving for the edge of the bed again. He growled when the Dane threw his arms back around his waist and pulled him back again, "Magnus…I'm going to count to three-."

" No. You're going to leave again. And I don't want you to." The elder blonde mumbled into his back, his arms tightening around the smaller waist in defiance. This was the stage that Arkin had come to dub 'Troll be Damned' for the Dane and he sighed, trying to keep his voice level.

"I'm not leaving, Magnus…I'm going to take a shower. _Alone_." He added in warning, noting that Magnus had sat up immediately at the mention of a shower. However, at the denial, he promptly pouted and flopped back down, curling his arms back around his waist.

"Mm-mm. Shower in morning. Sleep now. Gotta be up early."

"Magnus, you know I absolutely abhor-."

"_Nat nat_, Arkin…_sov godt_."

Troll floated up to his master's side, giving him a questioning look on whether or not he needed to punch the other nation. Arkin glared darkly; it softened, just the slightest when he realized Magnus was already deep asleep and was still using his leg as a pillow. He shook his head at his guardian, instead motioning for him to move the Dane onto the other side of the bed. Troll gave him a quirked look but did as requested, easily prying Magnus off and setting him back on his side of the bed…Arkin promptly sent him away after that. He settled down into the blankets once more and allowed the smallest smile to grace his lips when Magnus immediately latched onto him, mumbling something about 'warm' things.

The shower could wait. He pressed a kiss to the unruly mass of blonde hair and cradled the Dane's head to his chest.

"_God natt_, Mags…."


	3. FrancexCanada: Summer Wine

Matt braced his arms on the wall, letting the warm water beat down on him; let it sooth him out of the hazy pleasure. He felt a pair of arms wind around his torso, fingers gently kneading and caressing at the skin beneath them. A tiny smile spread across his face; he carefully pushed himself off the wall, turning so he was facing Francis, arms draping over the man's shoulders so he could play with the soaked blonde waves. Despite being slightly blind at the moment, he could still see the smirk playing across the older's face. He quirked his brow, deciding he was in a condescending mood, all things considered, "You're smirking."

"Am I? I prefer to call it smiling in the face of victory." Francis purred, tilting his head enough that he could nip along Matt's neck. The Canadian gave an appreciative hum, nails digging lightly at the man's shoulders.

"Francis…as wonderful as that feels…I'd rather the shower not run cold, now come on."

"Oh~? An offer…?" The Frenchman sounded thrilled to the point he was likely already plotting how to go about new positions in the shower.

"Francis…." Matt warned. He heeded the warning and by some miracle they managed to make it out of the shower with only minimal groping.

Matt did little more than fluff a towel through his hair, before retreating to his bed, dressed in an oversized jersey that he substituted for pajamas during the warmer seasons. He snuggled down in the blanket, watching his bedroom door in a vain attempt to stay awake until the elder nation joined him…in the end, he'd fallen asleep with his arms curled around Francis' pillow, face buried against the faint smell of cologne.

Barely minutes afterwards, Francis returned, dressed in a short robe and quirked a brow at his former ward. He shook his head, fond smile still dancing on his lips as he gracefully slid out of the robe, hanging it on the headboard before he began working on sliding into the bed without disturbing the younger. Matt opted to releasing the pillow almost as soon as Francis settled on the bed, instead burrowing into the man's side, arms wrapped in a manner that could almost be possessive. The Frenchman merely chuckled, rearranging his arms so that he could lie down with one arm curled up as a pillow and the other draping over the Canadian's body to keep him close. Matt, in turn, kept fast asleep through the rearranging and merely nuzzled against Francis' chest, smiling lightly all the


	4. SpainxRomano: 1861

Antonio's smile was absolutely blinding, Lovino decided. But, he couldn't find it in himself to be angry, not just yet. The Spaniard's hair, curly and messy as ever, stuck to his neck and face as he gently cleaned the both of them off. Lovino, by some miracle, found enough energy to reach up and brush the sweat matted bangs out of the bright green eyes; effectively, he also managed to make Antonio freeze on contact. The worry faded to downright annoyance as Antonio flopped on him and began cuddling him almost too tight.

"Oh, _Lovi_~ And I thought you couldn't get any cuter!"

"_C-chiudi quella cazzo di bocca, stronzo!_" The Italian's face flushed red, the same red as Antonio's favourite tomatoes and the Spaniard merely chuckled, silencing the angry Italian swears with a chaste kiss.

As he'd hoped, Lovino fell quiet and still. Antonio's smile was back on full wattage, though it toned down a bit to the mothering smile he used to use whenever the younger managed to scrape his knees, "How are you feeling?"

"My back hurts like a bitch…." Lovino mumbled, unwilling to move and growled in vague annoyance when Antonio forced him to roll over. Oh well, he would've rolled onto his stomach eventually on his own. Antonio doing it just meant less work for him. He felt calloused hands kneading at his shoulders, down to the small of his back, gently willing the pain to subside and Lovino let out the smallest sigh of contentment. He vaguely heard Antonio talking to him, but he'd already buried his face in the man's pillow, secretly reveling in the scent as he drifted off.

Antonio's smile softened further as he realized Lovino had passed out. He held in the urge to squeal and merely settled next to the Italian, watching him mumble and curl into a possessive ball around his pillow. The Spaniard responded by merely wrapping the other up in his arms…in passing he remembered to pull the blankets up on them so Lovino wouldn't be too mad at him in the morning. All in all…he thought this was a good way to celebrate the unification of the Italian states, especially as it left no room for regret if the unification did take his precious tomato away from him. He yawned, lightly, and buried his face in the Italian's hair; somehow, he had a feeling everything would be perfectly fine and he'd be woken up by Lovino's anger, just as before and for many years to come.

* * *

Tiny translation note: Chiudi quella cazzo di bocca, stronzo - Shut the fuck up, asshole. Such a potty mouth, Lovi. Making the rating go up and what not. This was a specific request from OP and I loved her for it *heart* I might redo it/make it longer eventually. Title comes from the year of Italian unification :3


	5. SpainxAustria: Symphony for the Sun

If Roderich were honest with himself, he could admit many things. One of which, was that he had inever/i considered he would be in this predicament. Yes, it was indeed his idea to pull the Spanish royalty into the Hapsburg line. Yes, he was very traditional about marriage rites. …No, he had not expected Antonio to keep him up the entire night, going into the early hours of morning. Country of Passion, indeed.

Said country was currently fast asleep, arms wrapped around the Austrian's waist in a childish manner, with his face planted against a pale leg. A small smile was on the tan face, broken only by an occasional mumble or a small whine whenever Roderich tried to move away. Minutes dredged on until he finally managed to get Antonio to switch his death grip onto a pillow; in relief, he slid off the bed and disappeared to the conjoining washroom and returned with a damp cloth. He'd given himself a quick wash over and quietly set about to doing the same to Antonio. He doubted the Spaniard minded too much, but he, for one, could not stand sleeping with the drenched feeling of sweat clinging to his body. And if Antonio was determined to latch onto him, he was going to be clean, God bless it all.

He was so determined to get the other nation clean that he hardly noticed he'd opened his eyes until he heard a deep chuckle coming from the pillow. Gray-blue eyes narrowed, ever so slightly and he gave the Spaniard an annoyed look; bright green eyes were looking up at him through matted bangs, the rest of his face still hidden in the pillow…it wasn't hard to tell he was grinning, though.

"Roddyyyy…go to sleep. We have to be up in a few hours, yes?" Roderich twitched, slightly mortified by the desecration of his name, never mind the odd heat it put on his cheeks.

"Once you're clean, yes."

"Oh! _Sí, sí_! It does feel rather odd on the silk, doesn't it?" Antonio sat up, none too ashamed when the meticulously placed sheet slid off his waist; he completely ignored Roderich's sputtering and bounced off the bed, padding towards the washroom, "You could have woken me up for that! I'll have plenty of time for a _siesta_ tomorrow, _sí_?"

"You won't be-…." Roderich let it go with a small sigh and an even smaller smile. Antonio had started singing, loud enough that his voice reverberated in the enclosed space of the bathroom…it was enough that Roderich let it go. Just this once, he could let it slide.


	6. PrussiaxRomano: No Tomorrow

Lovino really, really would have preferred to just go to sleep right then. He was comfortable; his arms curled around the pale body that draped over his and his face was nestled into the crook of the man's neck. In turn, the albino had his cheek against the Italian's shoulder. Lovino swore he was already asleep…of course, that thought was dashed when he felt a sharp pain in his neck and made a squeak that he would later claim was a swear. Because Italians didn't squeak, damn it all. He glared at the man, annoyance growing when the red eyes looked up, amusement dancing behind them.

"The fuck was that for?" Lovino put a hand to his neck, checking for blood, "I better not be bleeding, asshole and that better not bruise—bugger off!" He pushed Gilbert off when he made to bite the mark again and quickly wrapped himself in a sheet, never mind the heat was unwelcome at the time. It was protecting his neck and that was all that mattered.

"You didn't say I couldn't leave marks." Gilbert countered calmly, grin still spread across his face, as he pulled the bundled Italian back into his lap. He ignored the growl of protest and set about nuzzling at the covered column of flesh, tugging at the sheet with his teeth, "Come on, at least let me put a matching one on this side."

Lovino merely pulled the blanket tighter, glaring down the pale back as Gilbert continued trying to get at his neck. Faint scars decorated his entire body, though he wasn't too surprised. Lovino had his share and given the size that Prussian empire had once been, it was no real surprise. A particularly dark one caught his interest and he temporarily forgot his death grip on the blanket in favour of trying to get a better look at it.

All interest was lost as he simultaneously felt cold air on bare skin, another sharp pain, and the annoyance of having cold air agitating a fresh wound. He made to punch the man, annoyed by the mark; still, he wasn't too surprised when it merely got him pinned to the bed. He scowled into the annoyingly smug smirk that was hovering over him, "Ok. You win cabbage-head. Can we please go to sleep now? We have shit to do in the morning-."

"One, oh violent tomato, it is morning. 1:53, to be exact." Gilbert grinned when Lovino's face began to turn red, "Two…we don't have shit to do. We have the rest of eternity-or whatever the world deems as eternity for those of us that don't exist- to do whatever the fuck we want." Any protest the Italian had was cut off by a deep kiss and Lovino relaxed enough for Gilbert to release the pin-grip he had on his wrists. Lovino could live with that; it wasn't like he didn't have to figure everything out immediately. Still, there was one thing he had to finish before the end of the night….

Gilbert was pleased that he'd managed to calm the Italian back into an agreeable mood. Marathon sex didn't quite work if the second party was trying to maim the first party…though when he thought about it-.

"Ow! Mother of—the Hell was that for?" Gilbert glared at the smug grin on Lovino's face. He gingerly pressed two fingers to the bite mark on his shoulder, only vaguely surprised when he felt a tiny trail of blood.

"Payback. You're not the only one leaving claims, asshole. Shit don't work that way." The shock on his face was worth it, Lovino decided…even if that shock did turn into a sadistic grin before Gilbert began an assault on his curl. Second priority: after awesome sex, set rules about touching the damn curl.


	7. SwedenxFinland: Winter's Kiss

Tino gave the smallest sigh as he finally got Peter asleep. For being such a tiny nation, he had quite a bit of energy. Though, when he thought about it, Alfred had been the same way. He shook the thoughts off with a tiny smile and pressed a quick kiss to the boy's forehead before he crept out of the room. He started to retreat to his bedroom, then backtracked slowly when he noticed the kitchen light on and sighed softly, heading that way instead.

Berwald had his back to the door, a mug of Lingonberry tea steaming in one hand and the other tapping a pen on the table to no particular tune. The Finnish nation smiled and wrapped his arms over his husband's shoulders, giving his cheek a kiss, "Sve…come on, it's almost midnight. We've looked over your presentation at least twenty times today alone. You'll do fine."

The answer was a short grunt that Tino had long associated with 'I don't think so, but I'll believe you'. Berwald stood, taking the last sips of his tea; Tino took the cup and wandered towards the sink. It was such a natural routine, that the Swede had finally given up on trying to do his own dishes with his wife in the kitchen. So, instead of arguing, he came up behind the smaller, waiting until the mug was set on the drying rack to hug him around the waist. Centuries had finally trained Tino not to jump on contact and he smiled, leaning back against the stronger body with a small sigh, "Sve…as warm as you are…I'm sure the bed is much warmer."

"Mmm. M're comf'rt'ble, too." Berwald mumbled, easily picking his wife up before protests could be made. Tino made no protest and merely curled his arms around the man's neck, snuggling in tiredly.

"Well, it certainly isn't the ground." Tino teased, watching his husband scowl with a little chuckle.

"S'Den's fault."

"I know it was." Finland giggled, kissing his husband's brow gently before smoothing the tiny crease that formed with the scowl, "I'm teasing."

"I kn'w." Berwald set him on the bed, letting his wife get comfortable before he slid under the covers next to him, draping over him as he always did. It had become more habitual over the years, from the 18th century and especially after the Winter War. Tino squirmed until he was able to nestle into his husband's neck and murmured a soft good night.


	8. RussiaxAmerica: Pillow Talk

Alfred wasn't a morning person. He hadn't been for almost two hundred years, since he was a colony. Ivan on the other hand…. The American groaned when he felt the mass next to him moving and clung tighter, "Stop fucking moving, you frozen bastard."

"You have to let me go eventually." The Russian chuckled, none too bothered by the death grip that caused many other nations to swear. He was desiring to surprise his little bunny, and the silly thing wasn't letting him go…well…there was, of course, always the tried and true method. A small grin spread across the pale face and he stopped resisting. In turn, Alfred loosened his grip with an appreciative mumble. Ivan promptly turned the hug on him, sufficiently burying the American in his chest, "You have finally agreed to become one with Mother Russia, _moĭ zaĭchik_!"

Alfred swore loudly and shoved away, yelping when he fell off the bed as Ivan released him at the same time. The Russian chuckled, especially when the blonde worked on climbing back onto the bed, giving a heated glare, mumbling, "You're…such an asshole…too early for this bullshit."

"I did warn you I needed up."

"Ass. Hole. Gimme my blanket." Alfred mumbled, tugging his sheets and comforters back to his body and cocooning himself thoroughly. Ivan conceded without much of a fight and gave the lump a tiny pat where Alfred's head was. The response was the American wiggling his arm out and flipping the Russian off in a half-hearted manner that said he was already asleep once more. Ivan chuckled, carefully rearranging the body so the arm was back in the lump of blanket before he slid off the bed. He could at least make up for the rude awakening by making sure the coffee was made and ready when the American finally decided that he was ready to crawl out of bed. Perhaps they'd even make it an hour before the real insults started flying.


	9. RussiaxEngland: Sunflowers and Concrete

Ivan, Arthur decides one day, is a sad individual. He isn't sure why he's suddenly come to the conclusion, but it just strikes him in the middle of a G8 meeting one day and he can't get it out of his head. He watches him closely after that, his frown deepening every time the Russian smiles. The smile is plaster…no, not quite. It's frozen. Just like Russia, he decides after more observation. It's a failsafe, like Alfred's blasted "hero" smile.

Once he's come to that conclusion, he finds himself observing more. When the meeting ends, he goes over his new found list in his head, only half listening to what Alfred's saying, especially since it seems directed at the floating polar bear to his left. One, the smile is never really a smile. He's always somewhere else when he smiles. Two, Ivan has the worst habit of toying with his scarf or gloves when he's speaking. He'll twirl the scarf end around his finger or take his gloves off, just to put them back on. Three, Ivan really hates talking in front of people. His fidgeting gets worse when he's in front of people and Arthur wouldn't doubt that poor lad's heart is pounding in his chest. He shudders to recall the incident where his heart actually ipopped out on the table/i…moving on. Four, when he's not toying with his clothes, he's gripping the table. If he isn't twirling that scarf of his while he's talking, his hands are clutching the table. He sways when he does this, as though ready to collapse and Arthur suddenly finds it rather remarkable he's never fainted. Five, he has a habit of turning to his right, even if he's at the end of the table and no one is there. It's always brief, but he will frown and correct himself immediately. Six, he keeps to his notes during breaks, until the meeting reconvenes. At first, Arthur thought he may have just been looking over the notes…upon closer investigation, he finds flowers doodled all over the margins. Sunflowers, to be exact and it suddenly isn't too odd. He vaguely recalls that the man has a rather keen fondness of the sunflowers.

His list is cut short when he bumps into something solid that resembles a wall. It's much too warm, of course and he hastily supplies an apology. When he looks up, large violet eyes are blinking at him and he suddenly finds himself sweating.

"Comrade…should be more careful, _da_?" Ivan inquires gently, not seeming to notice the look over he's being given. That damn smile is on his face, though his attention is hardly on Arthur. For some reason, the Brit is put off by this and he can't help but bristle a bit.

The agitation evaporates easily as he continues his examination and he blinks in mild surprise. There are slight bags under Ivan's eyes and he's swaying again, rather like he does when he's forced to present. Arthur frowns, "Aye, sorry about that…eh…what about you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You don't look to well…tired, I mean." He amends quickly, more sensing than seeing the darkening air around the Russian, "When was the last time you slept, if you don't mind me asking, of course."

"I slept last night." He supplies, easily. Arthur has the distinct feeling he's lying, but before he can call him on it, Ivan has begun to mutter, "It's too warm here. We complain about the cold, but…Mother Russia has taught us to adapt to her nature. The cold is familiar…too warm here. Makes sleeping difficult."

He hadn't thought of that, though he did find it odd. "You didn't seem off when we were in Spain and China the past two summer meetings."

_"Da,"_ Ivan admits quietly, starting to sway again, "Yao brought sunflowers and made sure the room was kept cool. Alfred's house is too hot. Not like Antonio's. Antonio's house has the sea…makes the heat tolerable. Alfred's house is too hot." He's mumbling again and Arthur can slightly relate; he never did like the weather around Alfred's house, either. The sunflowers, at least, he could fix.

"Eh…Ivan. If you don't mind me askin', again, do you dabble with the Arts?" That had been bugging him for a while. Namely since his awry spell had summoned the Russian in place of the devil. That night still haunted Arthur's dreams on occasion.

"Natalia is more for the occult, but, yes. I have seen my share." He gave a pleasant smile; a pleasantly fake smile, that is, "You should know, _da_? You summoned me before~"

Arthur shudders and grabs one of the large, gloved hands before he can really stop himself, "I apologized for that mishap, so don't think of guilt tripping me. Now come along, I've somethin' to show you if you promise not to tell the others."

It's Arthur's turn to mutter and Ivan can only smile and blink in confusion as he's dragged off. They stop at the door to the ground level of the building and Arthur's impatiently drumming his fingers on his arm as they wait for the elevator. Ivan's still smiling and continues to pad after Arthur, even when they're in the parking garage of the building. They're soon in a surprisingly clear corner and Ivan is again confused. He tilts his head, watching Arthur pull a remarkably plain paintbrush of seemingly nowhere…he's painting something on the concrete and Ivan only vaguely wonders where the paint has come from. He suspects it's something meant to be on the darker side, but he can't stop an excited, amused laugh when Arthur steps back; he doesn't notice the Brit jump, "You brought me down here to draw a sunflower? You're an odd one, comrade~"

Arthur blinks at him a few times then looks back down at the magic circle. He frowns a moment, but only a moment, before he makes the odd connection between circle and sunflower. He has to chuckle and can't help shaking his head, "Never thought of that. But, no, not why I brought us down here."

Ivan's still quivering, likely trying to stop the amused chuckles, though he does cough a small apology and waits patiently once more. Arthur doesn't need his book for this; it's a spell he remembers learning from his elder brother once upon an eternity ago, or so it seems. The Gaelic comes easily; the brief, supernatural breeze is a small relief to the heat of the parking garage; when the small glow of green light fades, he gives a small sigh. More of fatigue than regret; it's been a while since he's dabbled with his magic and it leaves him rather tired. After a moment, he realizes Ivan's no longer stifling his amusement; he's gone rather quiet and the Brit looks over his shoulder again.

Ivan is staring at what used to be a hastily drawn magic circle; at what used to be concrete. He's fairly certain he's now staring at a patch of sunflowers. Tentatively, he edges forward and kneels. A large hand reaches out, draws back uncertainly for a moment, and then finally brushes the nearest flower. It doesn't vanish as he expects it to; it doesn't crumble to ash; there is no blanket of snow to kill the patch. As suddenly as he'd fallen quiet, he's laughing again and has an armful of the flowers in seconds; he's delighted when the ones he pick grow back, enough that he can't stop the childish, delighted sounds of excitement that are blurring between Russian and English from spilling from his lips.

Arthur catches every other word or so, enough to understand and translate his limited Russian vocabulary and his lips twitch into a small smile. He hangs back, letting the Russian get the excitement out of his system…he's suddenly sputtering when a pair of strong arms are suddenly wrapped tight around him. He will deny flailing when he manages to regain his dignity, but for now he's calmed down and awkwardly pats the other's back, "I…I take you like them, then?"

"Oh, yes! Most definitely, they are wonderful!" Ivan releases him as suddenly as he had grabbed him and scoops his sunflowers back into his arms. He rather reminds Arthur of the odd floating polar bear that follows Alfred around, though he can't quite pin why. He shrugs it off and offers a slightly wry smile.

"I'll see if I can get Alfred to turn the AC up a bit, aye? And please, for the love of sanity, don't tell anyone I just did that." He's mumbling again, unaware of the light pink colour that's begun to flood his cheeks. Ivan, however, notices and grins. He tugs Arthur's jacket, like a child-which is silly, given their height difference, but he can't help himself- and waits until the Brit looks up to give him a quick kiss.

"I am good at keeping secrets, _da_? No one will know~!" That being said, he quite literally bounces off, flowers still in his arms and leaves Arthur sputtering in his spot once more.

Now alone, he takes a moment and adds to his list, though he's forgotten what the original 'seven' was. So, he starts there with a new one; seven, his kiss tastes like winter. Brief as it was, Arthur could definitely taste that unmistakable frozen season, if such a thing were possible. In passing, he wonders if that was also blood and ash he tasted. He was going to let it go, really he was…but when the Russian turns up at his hotel doorstep at three in the morning, still hugging the sunflowers, he concedes to let him in. He listens to the hushed stories that have woken the Russian from his sleep. What starts as verbal comfort merely confirms his earlier suspicions; Ivan's kisses, sweet and nervous as they are, cold and pleasantly reminiscent of winter as they are, Ivan's kisses are tinged in the blood and ash of years long since past.


End file.
